


The Never Ending Work In Progress

by Pikkulef



Series: Original characters and their original stories, not all well fitted together [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-20
Updated: 2017-09-17
Packaged: 2018-11-16 16:59:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11257101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pikkulef/pseuds/Pikkulef
Summary: Some people want what others would call the dullest, most average and boring life in the world. Some people want to be forgotten and left alone. Some people want to be remembered so bad... they can't die.[maybe this will change with time]





	1. On bad days.

**Author's Note:**

> What a title ! I have been working on this story for years and will still be for years, more than probably. Because !!life!! and no inspiration, and...  
> But those characters are very dear to me, so I want to make them live. I have my own Scooby Gang ! 
> 
> The first chapters are finished, edited (by my good friend "rancid" none the less ;) ), and will be posted fast and as soon as I can all together, but after that, there can be litteral YEARS between chapters. Slow burn story haha. 
> 
> Please note that I am French, and that my characters are French, living in a French city. Except this is written in English because I hate my French style. 
> 
> Thank you for reading if you decide to do so !

   Desden was quite relieved to get back home, if not enjoying the tram ride there. It was the hottest day of the year yet, and the air conditioning in the car was broken. He was really not fond of days when the temperature would get over 35°C.  Especially like today, when the sun was scorching. Not good. Migraines were coming fast when the light was so intense. Secondly, the company he worked for had new clients, Japanese clients from a tiny firm, who didn’t know enough English, nor French, for that matter, to carry on a project. And he might be good at his job, usually, but he just didn’t know Japanese. Same for Korean, Mandarin, etc. The new clients had tried many Asian languages, but it didn’t work; he didn’t speak them. The languages he knew were not enough; the office would have to find a new translator for Asian markets. Another reason to explain his migraine, because he would be in charge of it and hated giving interviews. And last, but not least, he was apparently suffering from some mild food poisoning from this awful fish they had at lunch. He knew it was bad, he knew it. Now, the taste of it was all he could think about, his stomach threatening to send his regards to him at every turn.

   Getting out of the tram, Kalinka at his heels, he wondered if he could make it home. His balance wasn’t always good on good days; right now it was a nightmare just to walk on a straight line, even with the dog.  He could feel sweat rolling down his already damp t-shirt, trapped between his spine and his backpack. It was not so far away. He knew the way by heart. Just turn right at the corner, then left, then it’s the third alley; no need to go all the way to the front of the building, the back door was closer, next to the litter bins. Not so far. He kept his eyes closed to block the scarce yet burning light that he could see.  
  
   The alley. He was there, finally. He could already feel he was in the shadows, were the air was slightly cooler… but stank. He couldn’t help but stop, his already mangled stomach put to test, trying not to throw up at the smell of rotting meat ahead. Could that stench come from the bins? Really? But no, he’d gone past them already, as they were at the entrance of the alley, and he had almost reached the door at the end. Almost, yet so far. He had to move, but was sure the tiniest movement would make him vomit. He felt the dog shuffling impatiently against his leg. Maybe she was seeing food remains, or a dead goat or elephant or whatever was stinking so much, and wanted a bite out of it… No, again. She was wailing now. She was not hungry, but upset. By what? It was starting to get weird.  
  
   Helpless, standing in the middle of this alley at four in the afternoon, 38°C and with a soon to be awful headache and a queasy stomach, Desden felt really, really tired. And stupid. Would he have stopped if he had been able to see whatever carcass had been dumped there? Surely not, he’d have looked the other way and ran towards the door. Then why not go on? Really, did he really want to know what was rotting in this alley? Why bother ?  
  
   The answer was at his feet, crying, stirring. He let go of the handle of Kalinka’s harness to pet her, only to find her fur was standing on end. Something was wrong. Something was so _fucking_ wrong. Desden felt something that was dangerously close to fear casting its icy net over all his other thoughts. Kalinka had never displayed such a behaviour. He had to go back, get in by the front door and call the concierge. But he’d have to cross two streets for that, and that would take longer than he could handle right now. He was also almost sure the thing there was dead, given the stink. Almost, again.  
  
   With fear, nausea, anger and a kind of morbid curiosity battling furiously in his head, he never thought about taking his phone out or shouting for help, but stepped further towards the end of the alley, towards that door he knew he could reach in three big strides.  
But the dog would not move.

   “Oh, please Kalinka.” His voice was strangled. “Move. Come on. Please. Not now.”  
  
   She did not even react to him saying her name. She obviously did not either when he shouted abuse at her. She just stood there, making sad noises. So he let go of the harness again, shortened her lead, and got out his foldaway cane to continue. He blew air out, held his breath, and went on. Fear had this advantage that nausea and migraine were now relegated at the background. Three. Fucking. Steps. He knew this place so well, he wouldn't even need the damn cane. But just in case. Just in case. Carefully, he went on, dragging Kalinka along, until his cane met something solid with a characteristic noise.  
Like hitting fabric. Like hitting someone on the calf, as it happened sometimes. The idea of someone standing in front of him, reeking of old, dead meat, passed through his head during a terrifying second, but some sense went back to him as he realized that there was indeed nothing above what he’d hit.  
  
   Later, he would try to explain why he’d done that, instead of calling someone on his cell phone or just carry on until he’d have reached the door, or even just start to shout for anyone to notice; but no answer would come. He was usually rational, cautious enough, of course, but at this moment his mind had gone blank. Also, maybe, there was this part of him that clearly knew he’d done it because for once, he’d do something that was not planned, that he was not supposed to do, that anyone would think him, above anyone, crazy to do. But he could not explain that to the police, could he? So he’d play dumb.  
  
   Desden let go of his dog, folded back the cane in his backpack and crouched.  The stench was so powerful now his eyes were watering, and he had to swallow back a bilious taste in his throat. But he wanted to know. He reached out to touch what was there… and felt a soft fabric. Drapped over a leg. Definitely a leg. With a shoe at one end – leather – and a thigh at the other. And there was another leg next to it and obviously a body attached to them and Desden just leaped to his feet, tripped on said legs, fell on his hands, not even noticing that a shard of broken glass pierced his left palm, got up, in some way or another got a hand on Kalinka’s harness who miraculously moved, and collapsed against the back door of the building after two big strides, shivering. He fumbled with the key and lock during a few excruciating seconds, then burst the door open, shouting.  
“There’s a corpse! There’s a fucking dead body in the alley! Help! Fuck, is there anyone here?”  
  
   Footsteps, someone was running toward him in the corridor.  
“Mr Dessaigne!”  
It was the concierge. Desden had never been that happy to hear his own last name in that old man's grumble. He could suddenly feel the cool air, and cold tiles under his right hand, against the wall, when his knees threatened to give way.  Kalinka was there, licking what he realized was blood on his hand.  
“Mr Dessaigne, are you all right? Christ, you’re bleeding! What’s wrong?”  
The old man’s voice was high-pitched in panic. He grabbed Desden’s arm, out of sheer concern, probably, but Desden couldn’t help but push him away roughly, yelling again: “This is not about me, you moron! There’s a fucking dead body in front of the bins back there!”  
While trying to gesture behind him with his arm, Desden hit the concierge, which had the effect of a sudden cold shower. “God, I’m sorry, I –”

   The old man took a few steps back, finally letting him breathe.  
“How do you know he’s dead?  
Was it really the right time for this kind of question?  
"No one alive reeks of rotten meat. Really, go, have a look, please, there’s a dead body right in front of the door. Call the police. Please.  
"I’ll check.” He didn’t sound convinced.

   Desden took off his glasses and rubbed his face with his right hand; the left one was starting to be painful. Both hands and his legs were shaking. Not a minute had passed when the concierge rushed back in, closing the door behind him and leaning heavily against it, by the sound of it. When he finally talked, his speech was ragged:  
“You were right.”  
_Hell, fuck you, I was._  
“We should call the police, Mr Lenôtre.  
"Why didn’t you?” The concierge’s tone was aggressive, most likely because he was distressed, but it was not helping. “You young people carry a phone at all times, why come and get me instead?”  
Desden didn’t know. He wanted to shout. Yes, panic makes you do stupid things sometimes. He swallowed, and took his time to craft an answer.  
“I guess I wanted confirmation. I was not really sure and you might understand why I’m not fond of exploring.” He held out his injured hand.  
“It’s a young man. He has a hole in his head. I don’t think I will ever be able to erase this image from my memory.  
"Lucky you!” Well, aggressiveness was contagious. “Sorry, Mr Lenôtre. I’m quite in shock myself, I... Shall we call now?  
"Yes.” Desden’s mean little retort had apparently had an effect. “Sorry. I’ll do it. Don’t move. I’ll bring you something to get you back on your feet, and we’ll look at your hand.”

   The concierge’s footsteps faded away, and Desden finally let his legs give way, trying to crouch against the wall, failing miserably and ending in an awkward sitting position. The muscles in his thighs were still twitching. He felt Kalinka moving closer, and before he could react, his face was covered with warm, damp licks. Gently pushing her nose away from his face, he hugged the dog, burying his face in her thick fur. That made him feel a little better.


	2. Meet Diane. And cops.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where you get to know more about who, where, and the local station's nicest policeman. Or not.

Climbing up to the locally famous Bastille, that old fort overlooking the steep-sided plains where the city looked like it slept, curled up in a mountain cradle, had been the first thing she’d done when she arrived in this new place. Diane had heard about the dirty streets, she’d heard about the pollution, but she hadn’t heard about the view. Now she went up there almost every evening after she closed the bookshop, enjoying the sunset, and the soft light afterwards even more so, when blue shadows contrasted the yellow lights on the old part of the city – the part that was directly at her feet. There were also high points, like the Three Towers, monuments to the ugliness of the 1960’s architecture, and the Mistral tower, older and so decaying the eponymous park it was set in had to close it so that visitors could not harm themselves; both monuments were sometimes the only things you could see clearly in the morning, over a yellowish cloud of fog, exhaust fumes and other lovely gases.

She had learnt all that in the few weeks she’d lived there thanks to the touristic books she sold. When there were no customers and nothing to do, she would just open them at random and learn about this new area she had yet to explore. She loved it. Some would have to acknowledge that, by the end of the first month, she knew more secrets about the city than a big part of its inhabitants. Today the blue shadows were eclipsed by a stronger blue revolving light in a little street near the quay, on her side of the river. She couldn’t see much more than that, as high as she was, but could hear the faint sirens of a police car. She decided to stay until the light had disappeared, but that happened quickly, so she stayed a little more, her gaze drifting once again to the high mountain peaks on her left. She couldn’t wait for winter, when they would be covered in snow.

Eventually she thought about her hungry cat, at the other side of town, and ran down to the river, making a big detour to avoid the gawkers that whatever happened on the quay must have attracted. On her way back home, she stopped briefly in front of the tiny bookshop, its green wooden storefront now under a decrepit iron curtain for the night, thinking about how lucky she was to have found this job so quickly. There were only two workers there, the owner, Laurence, and she, but they were not exactly drowning in work. Half of the shop was dedicated to the usual, novels, history or cooking books, and Diane’s beloved tourist stuff; but the other half, at the back, was more out of the ordinary: alternative cures and how to avoid allopathic medicine, how to live a better life using plants and spells, and so on. Laurence apparently firmly believed in all that was said in these books – as a strong reaction to “regular doctors”, as she called them. The plan was apparently to ditch the “normal side” to replace it by some kind of a herbalist’s shop in the future. Diane, who was not at all versed in all that, didn’t really know what she’d do by then, stay or resign. In the meantime, she took care of the novels while Laurence sold her more esoteric books and stuff.

A fat and shaggy black cat ran into her legs as soon as she opened the door to her flat, wailing as if he hadn’t eaten for days. She was filling his bowl, cat still crying and weaving around her and the food, when her phone rang. Oddly enough at this hour, it was Laurence.

 

***

 

Despite the ten-year-old law banning smoking in public places, the whole station smelled of stale cigarettes. Freezing air was blowing directly on Desden’s neck, and the coffee the policemen had served him was disgusting – also it was a bad idea, considering this lunch’s fish still felt like it was still alive. He’d been told to sit and wait in a small place, probably either someone’s office or an interrogation room, until the criminal unit arrived. He’d already been questioned, but the criminal unit boys seemed to want to go over it all again.

It was ridiculous. He picked at his bandaged hand. Twelve stiches. It was not really hurting that much anymore, but rather itching. Kalinka had apparently picked up his nervousness and was pacing back and forth against the walls. She stopped and came closer to him as the door clicked open, and someone sat in front of him in a cloud of fresh cigarette smoke. Desden realized he was craving a smoke right now, too, for the first time in years.

“Hello, Mr Dessaigne.”  
A bass, manly voice. There were apparently no women in this station.  
“I’m Inspector Blanchard, from the criminal unit. We’re working on organised crime and we have good reason to think this person you’ve found had ties with them. But first, let’s go over this file of yours, shall we? So I get to know you.  
“Hello.” This inspector was weirdly cheerful, for someone investigating a murder.  
“Stop me if you hear anything wrong. So, your name is Camille Dessaigne, no second name, you’re thirty-one, born in Lyon. Do you live alone?”  
This fairly simple question usually had a different meaning when people asked him nowadays. Desden felt more tired, if it was even possible. Also, he’d have to deal with them using his actual first name instead of the nickname he had carefully given to all his acquaintances for about twenty years. But he smiled and ruffled the fur on top of Kalinka’s head, on his knees.  
“Yes. Apart from this lady, of course.”  
He always forgot to mention his sister lived two floors below him. On purpose.  
“You already are in our database, because…” Pages ruffled. “Nine years ago, you went missing, and when we finally found you a day or so later, you were badly beaten and all your possessions had been stolen. You didn’t file any complaint yourself, but your family did; however, the case is still open.  
“If I had my say, it would be closed.” This was going nowhere. “Why do we have to go over all that again? You have my file, you know it; I know it, what more do you want to know?  
“Please, Mr Dessaigne.  
For some reason Desden pictured the cop holding out a hand in his mind. Maybe he did. “You weren’t blind before this happened.  
This inspector was one real Sherlock Holmes.  
“No, I wasn’t.  
“OK. So you will know what I am talking about, then.  
Desden wondered what that meant.  
“Are you employed anywhere? It’s not listed here.  
“Yes.” Desden voice was dry. “That might be because no one asked. I’m in charge of translations and international relations for a company called Filtech. They manufacture and sell specific filters for scientific experiments. Chemistry, biology, all that. We’re based in –  
“International relations?”  
Desden didn’t like that tone. There was something… incredulous about it? Maybe he was just too tired; he was getting paranoid.  
“Yeah, in charge, since it’s basically only me, we’re not that big. But big enough and in a specific niche so we export a lot, and to many countries.”  
Silence.  
The inspector was writing something down, apparently using some pen and paper. Who did that nowadays?  
“Okay, thank you. Now, let’s talk about what happened today. Could you tell me everything you did this afternoon, please?  
Desden told. Once again. He felt sick, his migraine worse than ever, and he was stuck there explaining for the third time what he had done during the afternoon, in great detail. The inspector was getting on his nerves with every word. He was going crazy.

Had Lenôtre been through this too? Maybe the concierge was still around. He could hear Kalinka had started moving restlessly again; she even let out a little cry at some point. He had just finished talking, and was going to ask about when all this was going to end so they’d finally let him go, when the inspector spoke:  
“Did you recognize this man, then?  
“Excuse me?  
He had not really heard that. No.  
“I asked you if you recognized the body.  
Desden didn’t know what to answer to that. He took out his glasses, set them on the table, and gestured towards his eyes.  
“Is it a joke? I am blind, for fuck’s sake. Why don’t you ask me what I think of the decoration of the station while you’re at it? That brown sucks, guys, you should try blue. More soothing.  
“Mr Dessaigne, please. You touched him, after all. We haven’t identified him yet and if the body was left there it must have been because he’s from around there, so you might know him. Mr Lenôtre couldn’t help us, maybe you can. We need all the information you could give us.”  
Desden felt like hitting the table with his fists. He only drummed his fingers, put his glasses back on and sat back on his chair. He bit his lips.  
“I really doubt I would have recognized anyone only by touching their face. If I did touch everyone like you seem to think. And as I have just told you, I have only touched the legs and feet of this body. Now if you really believe that I go around recognizing people in the streets by groping their calves, I am really not willing to continue this conversation.”

The inspector didn’t answer nor said anything for a while, which made Desden feel more and more awkward. This man in front of him was staring, scrutinizing him, and he could do nothing about it nor stare back at him. At least he assumed he was staring; what else could the cop be doing? There was no sound of a pen on paper, nor anything else. At last, the inspector spoke, a lot more coldly:  
“Well I guess this will be all. But given what you’ve been through today, I think we would be more willing to let you go if someone came to pick you up. We’ve taken the liberty to call your sister – she was listed on your file.  
“I’ll be going alone, thanks. First you expect me to recognize a dead body by touch, and then I’m suddenly not good enough to walk back home? Tell my sister she can stay where she is, the walk is needed.  
“She sounded very concerned, and said she would call to check on you when she’s on her way. She -  
He was cut by a very loud, screeching scream, followed by a hysterical electric guitar and drums. Startled at first, Desden fished in his trousers pockets as fast as he could to retrieve his mobile phone and turned it off. He could feel he was red from cheeks to forehead. “Sorry, ringtone… If we’re done, I’ll call her back now.”

He called Laurence back, who shouted at him to stay at the station and wait; she was stuck at work – something about a dinner with a publisher – but sending her employee to give him a lift. Some girl name starting with a D, he didn’t care. He was planning to be gone as soon as he hung up. In the end, it was not that easy, but the cops finally let him go. It would have been a lot easier still to convince them if he had not chosen this very moment to lose balance twice after getting up from this stupid chair. That usually came up with the migraines, and he would not fall again if he could take his time to stand up and not move for a few seconds, but they wouldn’t listen.

Outside, it was still hot, considering the cold air inside, but the temperature had cooled down by some degrees. A strong wind was rattling the trees on the other side of the road, in the park. Wind was new for the day. He had to hurry, or he wouldn’t make it home before the rain; he liked rain, after a day like that, but he was not thrilled by the perspective of walking under it. Especially thunderstorm rain, and that was what they were going to get, judging by this sudden change of weather. Smelled like storm. It wouldn’t be long before thunder arrived.

Fortunately, the police station was not far from one of his favourite pubs, so he knew the road perfectly. This whole part of the city was neatly mapped in his head. He started walking towards the river, which he could not hear yet but soon would.  He had not covered a hundred meters when a car with what sounded like a tiny and tired engine slew down beside him and kept up with his pace. He kept going on, digging his head into his shoulders. An unknown woman voice shouted over the car’s noise.  
“Are you Camille Dessaigne?”

 

***

 

Could that be him? The man who had just got out of the police station was blind, obviously. But Laurence had said “visually impaired”. Not “blind”. Either it was not him or this was the understatement of the year, because she had not understood this. Diane slew down a little, feeling uneasy about annoying a blind man on the street, but as soon as she was on his side she recognized him.

They had never met, but his nose was exactly the same as Laurence’s. Diane had wondered during days where and how someone like Laurence could have broken it, imagining different scenarios. Now she saw that this bump she had was genetic – it was a very characteristic nose. With this in mind, she noticed his hair colour was approaching Laurence’s, if mousier than hers, and with a stroke of white at the lower back of his head. Also, his face: strong cheekbones and jaw line – although he was less skinny than his sister, it was striking how they looked alike. Even their bodies; tall – _very_ tall -, with long limbs.

Sure it was him, she called out his name. The man who was most probably Laurence’s brother, reacted to her question by shaking his head and parting his arms, with an infuriated sigh.  
“WHAT?” Even his dog seemed startled. “Holy fucking shit, you said you wouldn’t stop me if I really wanted to go home alone, and I really, really-really want to go home, NOW WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME _AGAIN_?  
Diane was baffled by this. So it was him, but he thought she was someone else.  
“Sorry? I am not the police or whoever you think I am. I’m sent by your sister? Laurence? She said she’d tell you I’d pick you up?  
The brother (Camille, it was Camille) suddenly looked angrier, but seemed to shut off at the same time. She studied him again, less concentrated on his resemblance to his sister. He looked pale – except for bright red spots on his cheeks and the tip of his ears. His clothes were rumpled, his left hand was bandaged. There was blood on his t-shirt and some stains of various colours on his jeans knees. He was facing the wrong way. It was all a little depressing to look at. His dog was a beautiful, though, a big shepherd.

“Ah. Dear sister. Yes, she told me. You’re the girl who works for her. Deborah? Something with a D, I was not paying attention, sorry. And I told her to go fuck herself. Can I go home now?  
“It’s Diane. Well, I kinda promised I’d see that you got home safe. It’d be annoying if-  
“If I walk into a street light or fall into the river. Yeah, I get it. For you. Right now I do feel like jumping from a bridge but I don’t think Kalinka here would fancy the swim very much. Also, how am I supposed to believe that you are not planning to rob me of all my money and phone and keys and all that before dropping me in the river yourself?

It was as if thunder had waited for him to finish his sentence to blow up, seemingly right above their heads, and the first raindrops, big and cold, flapped loudly against the road and sidewalk. She saw more than she heard him sigh again, and his shoulders dropped slightly. He suddenly looked younger. And exhausted.  
“You’re right, nothing. Except we’re in front of a police station and I swear they’re all looking at us through the windows right now.  
The rain was gaining strength. His hair was getting damp fast, and some short locks already stuck to his forehead.  
“So do you still want to walk home now? Car is warm and dry, even if a little small for you and your dog. Do it for me if you don’t do it for your sister.  
Camille didn’t answer. He tilted his head theatrically, letting the rain pour on his face, and then shrugged.  
“Dammit, it’s cold. Let’s go.  
“Do you want me to  
“No.” He held out his hand. “Don’t. I’ll be OK.”  
She watched him walk towards her, guided by his dog, and probably by the sound of the engine, hold out his arm to touch the car’s body and turn around it to face the passenger’s door. He opened it and then stopped. Something was wrong. Of course, the car. Diane opened the door.  
“Sorry, it’s a Twingo, there’s only two doors. Wait, I’ll take care of the seat.” She made a move to fold the passenger’s seat so his dog could go on the back, but Camille was in the way. After a while, fumbling a little to find the handle, he folded the seat to.  
“How did you know about that? That handle?  
“You are all so dumbfounded by my feats.  
The dog jumped inside, followed by his owner. Camille sat and closed the door. He wiped water from his forehead, with a little smile that looked more annoyed than amused. He was cute.  
No, not now, it was not the right time to think such things. And it was probably not the right guy either. She had been alone for too long, that was all.  
  
“You told me yourself. This is the perfect student car, isn’t it? Easy to park in this city. I had one for a few years, it was handy. Now, please, do what my sister asked you, drop me off at 45 Saint-Laurent street, and if you have more questions, just ask the dog.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter ! But I don't think I could cut it, I have decided chapters are time units.


	3. Someone's flash-back.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What can I say, I like flashbacks so much that I offer you one from a character that has not appeared yet.

Night was cold and empty and this place was dull. Why choose the park tonight? There was never anyone to sell to there. And it was one of the coldest nights of the year yet. Bummer. 

He got one glove off with his teeth, and lit a cigarette. It’d have been easier to stay put had he found money for a jacket these last months. Or a scarf. Or a fucking beanie. Now with that old dye of his, his hair stood out like a fucking beacon under the lampposts. Way to say hello to the cops.   
A voice came up down the trail. He withdrew from the light, in the shadows of the bushes. He was not really afraid of cops – out by this weather? Hah! – but there were three or four guys roaming around since the last hour he didn’t like the likes of. Skinheads. Buckle boots and probably brass knuckles too, trying to find some arses to kick. He knew them. They’d steal all his stuff and send him on a little trip to the hospital, all for free.

Another cigarette. The butts were piling at his restless feet, and he still hadn’t made any money tonight. What time was it? Was it late enough to call it a day? There was a guy coming by – not a skinhead. Tall, big scarf, beanie down to the eyebrows, and a shoulder bag probably containing a laptop. Obviously tipsy. Student.   
He sprung out of the bushes.   
“Hey bro. Need some?   
“Hah, I think I had enough, thanks.   
Tall Guy chuckled in his scarf. He’d kill for this scarf. It looked so warm and soft. Tall Guy should probably be afraid, instead of laughing at him. But it was true he was very. Tall.   
“You sure? For later, maybe? Come on, I’m cheap. And it’s Afghan, not something you find everywhere. Not cut with shit.  
“Oh-ho, I’m sure it’s good.” Still chuckling. “But nah. Thanks, anyway. I’ll direct my friends in need to you here next time, that okay for ya?  
“Well then fuck off.” He gave him his meanest look, but Tall Guy laughed even more.   
“Ah, see you, then. Buona notte!” Tall Guy even waved at him, and disappeared in the darkness of the trees. 

“Buena note, my ass.”   
He grumbled. And lit a new cigarette on the butt of the dying one. He was crashing the little red dot under his boot when he saw movement in the pool of light under the next lamppost, through the tree branches. He slowly tried to hide more into the bushes – he should have run, but was afraid he’d get caught.   
Tall Guy had met the skins. He could not hear what they were saying, but the three skinheads were circling him – the dude was a foot or so taller than all of them, but didn’t look like he could stand to them.   
He was too short sighted to see their expressions, but this sounded bad. Very bad. They argued for a while, and then one of the attackers tried to snatch the shoulder bag. When Tall Guy didn’t let him, another hit him roughly on the shoulders. Tall Guy reeled over to the third one, and they threw him at each other once more. Tall Guy was still clutching onto his bag – what a dumbass! If he’d let go of it he’d have been running away by now.   
He himself was stirring, hidden in the bushes like a terrorized little mouse. But he could not cross and run, or they’d see him. 

A metallic flash confirmed his previous hint: brass knuckles. They were just showing them off for now. Another one, the one right behind Tall Guy, had some sort of brick or cobblestone in his hand. Tall Guy started shouting. He sounded more angry than afraid, but maybe that was because he was drunk. 

It happened very fast. A metal reflection in front of Tall Guy, that got him in the guts, making him bend, then the cobblestone hitting hard, very hard, at the back of his head. Tall Guy made one step then collapsed in a pile over his beloved shoulder bag. The skins didn’t move for a couple of seconds, then one took off with the bag, and the two others dragged the body under the bushes. It was all over in less than a minute. They were gone. 

He started running in the other direction then remembered. The scarf. If the blow had been as hard as it had seemed, Tall Guy would be dead anyway, and wouldn’t need it anymore. He hesitated. It was bad. He’d have to be careful. On the other hand, it was freezing, he was more or less homeless, and the other was dead. 

He walked back to the bushes where he’d stood, then a little further. They had hidden him well. He tried not to look at Tall Guy’s face while trying to tear off the scarf, but failed. There were blood coming out of his nose and ear, under the beanie, and his eyes were open and blank. Not the first time he saw a dead guy, though. He pulled harder on the scarf, then jumped away when the other let out a loud whimper. His eyes moved. His hand, too. 

He let the scarf where it was and ran away. Fast. 

He never set a foot in that park again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you tell I never bought drugs on the street ? Yeah. Well. Not the only cliché thing in this story for sure.


	4. Dead men tell no tales.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phantoms from the past ? 
> 
> And this is the last of the finished, good enough to publish, chapters.

Desden had taken a couple of days off, but he couldn’t take more than that, so he had to go back. He was behind on his work, and Clémence, the woman he was sharing his office with, was not able to hold a conversation in any other language than French; god forbid he let her try. 

He was not really feeling well about this: getting out of the house worried him a little, now all the adrenaline had ebbed and the reality of what happened had settled down. But he got out, eventually, cursing himself all the way down to the entrance of the building: too curious, too reckless. What had he been thinking? The thought of going through the back door was enough to make his stomach ache, so he took the other one, and made a detour that had him arriving late at the office. 

Everyone there knew. The story had made it to the newspaper – not his name nor any picture of him, but it was not too hard to link the blind man who had found a body in the Italian neighbourhood to the blind man who had unexpectedly taken a few days off without any explanation, and who surprisingly also happened to live in said Italian neighbourhood. Most people were nice enough not to talk about it, others offered kind words and support – more than once in the form of chocolates. Only one or two had the nerve to ask him how it felt touching a dead body or why on earth had he tried to know what was there in the first place. The newspaper article was terrible, as only local newspapers can be. It made him laugh, though, as Julien, his more or less only actual friend from there, read it to him while emphasizing and adding comments of his own. 

He was able to sit at his desk roughly an hour after he had arrived. There, Kalinka at his feet, his headset on and Clémence humming whatever song she had in mind as a background sound, things started to feel a little more normal. 

In the end, a day at his workplace had had an unexpected positive effect: routine was soothing. Still, he was typing too slowly with his injured hand, and work was piling up. He had brought some at home, but was falling asleep on his keyboard. Translating users notices had never been his favourite part of the job. He stretched out, and felt his watch: half past twelve. He had not even eaten this evening. Deciding he was too lazy and not hungry enough to even cut a piece of the pie that lied in the fridge, he just checked if Kalinka had some food and water left, undressed, and crashed on his bed. His last thought before going to sleep, oddly, was for that girl Laurence had sent to fetch him. He’d have to get her something, to thank her. She’d been nice and he’d been an asshole.

***

Head was hurting. Ears were ringing. He was lying on something cold, like tiles, maybe. Moving his hands on it made every single one of his joints crack. He knew before opening his eyes: the place was all dark, only lit up by the little light – street light? – coming through closed blinds. Every move was painful, but his head - it felt like a fucking train had run through it.   
He brought his hands up to his face, still lying on his side, and felt for it. A hole. In his forehead. So yeah, he knew about that. He could barely touch it – oddly enough, there was no pain there, but something like a repulsion, as if he’d be sick, as if he’d throw up whatever was left in his stomach if his fingers actually made contact with it. It was like he could feel it without even touching it, his hand only hovering above it. But this, this he was sure of. He knew he was dead. How, he had no idea, he just knew he was – and the way it had happened. His problem was the rest. He felt it was there, somewhere, but he couldn’t reach it. 

He sat. 

That’s when all hell broke loose.

***

Desden was awoken by a strong shiver that left him with pins and needles in his fingers and toes. It took him a few seconds to find his bearings; this sensation in his fingers wouldn’t go away. Static in the air. Metallic taste in the mouth. A headache that did not feel exactly like the ones he was used to having. He didn’t like this at all. As if to confirm his thoughts, Kalinka started barking fiercely in the living room. Then someone screamed. A very high-pitched scream, but definitely a male voice. His first impulse was to jump to his feet, grab his t-shirt and go check. But he stopped, and slowly sat back on his bed. 

What if it was a robber? Like, an armed robber? What if it had a link with the dead body in his street? What if they thought he’d known the dead man, like the police did? What if they knew he was blind and went on for an easy target just in case he’d heard or found something? What if – 

He just stood there, breathing fast and way too loud, unable to do anything, Kalinka howling and growling at the other side of the wall, and the intruder shouting back at her. Desden was panicking. He recognized that. It used to happen. He had to breathe. Slowly.   
He breathed in and did the only thing he could - force his mind to focus on what the man was yelling. Things about looking for something, being in the wrong flat. Not knowing anything. Being lost. About the lights? The only thing Desden was sure of, about lights, was that it was off in his room. He checked the time. Ten past two. So it was indeed still night. For all he knew, even if the other had found the switch, the bulb could have been out for months without him noticing. Desden hadn’t had many visits lately. He was trying to erase the stupid thought that he had the advantage if this was the case, when someone on the floor underneath started repeatedly hitting the tiles under his feet, asking when was his bloody dog going to shut up. It convinced him to make a move. At the very least there were people around, so if he was to be attacked, he’d just have to scream, wouldn’t he? But it was time to be realistic. He was a blind man with an intruder in his house. It was not the time to reiterate his stupidity of last week. 

He grabbed the phone on the bedside table. Not his cell phone, the landline; cell phone was in the living room, on the coffee table, next to his glasses and – fuck – cane. Whoever this person was could probably see enough even in the relative dark of the flat to notice that. He typed in the number 17 and got up.   
“Police. What is your emergency?   
“There is someone in my flat.

“I can hear you, you know. Calling the cops.” 

It was a croaky, nasal voice, with a sad tone.   
“I’m not here to kill you or whatever. Also they won’t do anything. I’m dead. 

“Sir? Are you okay, sir? What is your problem why have you called?   
“You know what, it was a mistake. My friend just got home drunk, nothing’s wrong. Bye.

The door from his room to the living room was wide open – out of the way – and he got out, and just stayed there, in the doorway. Kalinka was still barking, but the man was now just making crying sounds. Not very frightening, for an armed robber or a mafia killer. Desden’s left hand, the one that was not holding the doorframe to the point of cracking it, was shaking terribly. He closed it in a fist, clenching his teeth under the pain from his wound, and went on. He surprised himself with how steady and calm his voice sounded:   
“What the hell is going on in here?  
Kalinka immediately shut up and emitted a low growl instead. Even if he knew it was not directed at him, Desden couldn’t help being a little frightened by his dog. She had never acted like that before. That was the second time this kind of thing happened in a week.   
“Please, take that dog away, please.  
The voice was croaking, not as high-pitched as the scream would have let Desden think, but definitely high, still. He walked slowly, following where it came from, and noticed that the tingling in his fingers was still there. And getting worse the more he progressed. That could only mean one thing, and it was not good. He was not ready. He would never be, now. The man was going on and on, about the lighting now:   
“And the lights. I’m afraid of the dark, please, turn on the light, please. I really don’t like the dark, turn the lights on! I really need to see if I’m in the right place. Please.

Desden had arrived in the middle of the living room; the man, who sounded more like a frightened child now, was somewhere around the corner that lead to the corridor, and then the entrance. He stopped.   
“I’ll call the dog. Don’t move, don’t try anything or I’ll send her back.   
“I won’t. I won’t, I can’t see shit anyway. Call the dog all you like, I want some light. Feels like I’m dead again. I don’t want to feel this. I don’t -   
Desden was unsure if this was a good idea, but he really wanted the man to shut up, so he called Kalinka, who stopped growling only until she had trotted to his feet, licked his hand and sat. Then she started again. Desden was feeling dizzy. He closed his eyes, wincing, and slowly shook his head. The man was finally quiet.   
“What are you doing here? What do you want?   
“Light. Please. Light.   
“Dammit! you’ll get your lights, just answer my bloody question, what do you want?   
“My body.” The voice was muffled, as if coming from behind a hand. Or maybe his knees; it sounded like the man was talking from the floor or not much above it. “They’ve taken my body and I came here to find it. But they took it away again and now I don’t know where to go. I have to find it. I have to find it or I’ll be stuck. I have to find it. You found it but they took it away and now I can’t find it.  
Desden couldn’t help but wonder if that man in his living room was not just a guy who had used too much, or escaped from any nearby hospital, riled up with meds and obsessing about very weird things. In this case, he was probably going to be okay if he did what he was told and called the emergency services. But it wasn’t the case – he was literally feeling it in his bones. This thing about a body didn’t make any sense. Unless…   
“Why did you say I found it?  
“Found what?   
Was he joking? He didn’t sound like it.   
“Well, your body.   
“Can’t find it. IT HAS DISAPPEARED! I TOLD YOU! I CAN’T EVEN SEE IT NOW THAT IT’S ALL DARK!  
“Oh, fuck it. Alright.” This was probably a bad idea, but Desden was sick of this man crying for light. It would probably make him stop sounding like a broken record if he could finally see something. Now, he had to remember where the switches where. Trying not to come too close to the man, who was softly sobbing, he felt the wall until he found one.   
And with a little click, nothing happened.   
“Was that the lights? Oh god, I was dead, and now I’m blind!   
“YOU ARE NOT – you are. Not. Blind. The bulb is dead, this happens. Now shut up. I’m going to light the kitchen, and you will not move, or I’ll send the dog again. I’ll hear you.  
Desden stood there, waiting for an answer. After what felt like hours, he heard a pouty “Ok.  
Three strides, and the light hit his brain like a train hits a wall. He blinked and walked away from the kitchen.  
“Thanks.   
“No problem. Will you leave now?   
“To where?   
“To wherever pleases you, now go. I don’t know what you’re doing here and I don’t think I want to. Now you can see the door, scram.   
“But I need you, like, you are the one who found my body!   
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. One minute you say I found your body, the other you say it disappeared. I don’t know.   
“But I know.” Strangely, talking had made the man’s voice steadier. He didn’t sound like a whiney child anymore. “I recognize you. You’re the blind man.”   
So there was no reason to try and pretend, then. Anyway, it would have been hard to sustain now that the light was on.   
“I’m also a good cook and an okay partner for tarot nights, but I guess I’ll live and die under that description. How do you know? You read the papers? I’m pretty sure my name or address weren’t in there.” He was stalling. Why was he buying time? He knew what this was.   
“I saw you find it. So I thought you knew where it was. So I am here, you know.   
“You saw me? That was three days ago. What did you do during these three days? Who told you my address?   
He was not even denying it anymore. There was no point, they were past that.  
“Three days?   
“Yeah? And I’m sorry, but judging by the smell you had already been dead for another three days or so.   
“Can’t be. Can’t be. I am just here. It can’t be.   
“What do you remember?   
“Nothing. Dark. Waking up here. I’m dead, that’s all I know, I AM DEAD!   
“I know, I know you’re dead. I believe you, I know you’re dead.”

***

Short silence. He looked up. That guy was tall. Especially from where he sat. Apart from the fact that he was clearly not looking at him – and not even trying – the tall guy didn’t look blind, really. But somehow he knew he was. How?  
Clouded thoughts. He was unable to think clearly. He needed his body. But it was not there, they had taken it away. He wanted his body; he craved his body. 

He craved a smoke, too.   
“Got a fag?  
Tall guy looked baffled.  
“I, er… yeah, actually. Somewhere. Lemme check.”   
He just went. Disappeared. The dog too. Where had they gone? Had he gone to fetch his body?   
No. No, he had asked for a fag.   
But he was gone for a long time. How much time? He couldn’t tell. It could have been a few seconds, it could have been hours.  
Suddenly he was back, and holding not one but two cigarettes, and a lighter, presenting the lot in his general direction.   
“They’re old. Dry and probably not good anymore. Light the two and pass me one, would you? I kinda need one too.”

***  
Desden slowly walked up to the wall, where he could feel he was near but not too close to the dead man, and sat with his back to it, welcoming the coolness of the floor. He held out a hand for the cigarette, and he got it.   
That first puff felt like heaven, even if the tobacco was indeed too old to be good. He coughed a little – it had been a very long time since his last smoke. He could hear the other one inhaling (for what? He was dead, for fuck’s sake!) deeply too. It sounded like he was calming down. 

But what was he going to do with this thing now? He didn’t know. He was never told what to do with them. He was supposed to learn that but he never did. He just knew what they were. The silence stretched.  
“I cannot help you, you know.” Desden had spoken in his lowest, softest voice, as if not to trigger the dead man into shouting again. “You said it yourself. You’re dead, I’m blind. What could we possibly do about your corpse?   
“Body. Not corpse.  
“Believe me, it’s a corpse now. You reeked. Three days later and I still feel like your foul smell is engraved in my nose.   
“But I need help.   
“Is that why you’re here? For help? Help doing what? Why me?  
“I was not looking for you. I wanted The Weasel. I messed up.  
“What – The Weasel?” Desden frowned. It was such a weird, stupid name. How could this guy have ties with the mafia, as the cops had said? “Who’s that? What did you mess up? How did you end up here?   
“I don’t – I DON’T KNOW OKAY, I DON’T!  
“Come on, man, calm down. Calm down. I get that. You don’t know. Do you know what you want to do now?  
“Find my body.  
“Your body is at the police station. Or the hospital morgue. That’s where you should be. Not here. I cannot help you.”  
The dead man didn’t answer anything. He could still hear him inhale the smoke, deeply, and sniff from time to time. 

After a while, shut off in his own silence and thoughts, Desden realised he had drifted off, ashes from his now extinguished cigarette on his lap. He turned to his right, and started:  
“So what are you going to do then?”   
There was no answer. No deep breathing, no sniff. Desden carefully extended his arm. The other had disappeared. Were he stood sitting, Desden found the lighter and what felt like cigarette ashes. He had definitely not heard him get up.   
“Hello?  
No one answered. Kalinka, all calm and silent now, walked up to him and proceeded to lick his face. He gently pushed her away, and got up. The dizziness was still there, amped up by his moving, but the pins and needles in his fingers had vanished with the man. His headache too. 

 

He slowly, carefully walked to the drawer where he had found the cigarettes, lighter in his hand, and extracted another one from the pack. It took him several minutes and minor burns on the tip of his fingers (and nose) before he managed to light another. Then he got back to sit against the wall, thinking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I said, they're french. They smoke lots. They say fuck lots (especially one of them). They are going to drink lots too (of beer because they're all hype 20-30 somethings). And eat lots, of course. 
> 
> Also yes, if you're in need of police here, call the 112 on a cell or the 17 on a landline. This has been a PSA.


	5. Restless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extremely short inbetween chapters so you know what happens to Diane there. Or not.

Rain was splattering against the windows. Again. No one had told her summer storms here took a different meaning. Unpredictable, sudden, long lasting. From roasting one second to drowning the next. She wanted to go have a run. She needed to go have a good run. Tension had been piling up, her phone had kept ringing, all this so much that she felt her shoulders tight and her skin, all her body, crawl with the need to move.

  
She took her cup of tea and walked out on the tiny balcony, peering down as far as she could while still avoiding getting wet by the downpour. Some kids were still on the playground, only tiny colourful dots from where she stood, seemingly oblivious of the rain.

  
Her phone rang again. She had cut off the sound, but it was still vibrating, and she could see the light it made where it lied, abandoned on the couch that was also her bed. It had kept ringing for the last few days. She would not answer. Not these numbers. She dreaded the moment they would understand – or decided they had had enough – and try to call from a new one. Maybe they didn’t want to do this to her, they wanted her to pick up all on her own. They were still family, after all. But these constant calls weren’t helping.

  
A ray of sun shone through the clouds, on her left, between the other high buildings. Why not. Some rain had never killed anybody. And she was going to explode if she stayed inside one more minute.

  
She took her trainers and closed to door swiftly after herself to stop the cat from escaping, leaving her unfinished tea and the ringing phone on her couch.


	6. Dog trouble.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yet cops are like cats, they come back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very long. This chapter deals with some stuff I'm not really sure I can handle well... so I am open to any critique. Any. 7
> 
> PS : this is the worst chapter title i've ever come up with   
> HELP

_“… and luckily we are out of this heatwave now, after this last thunderstorm. But beware, new heat storms are still coming. I hate those, don’t you Sophie?  
“Oh yeah. Those storms that never break down. Electricity everywhere. Now that makes me think – ” _

Desden cut off the radio and sat back to his kitchen table to finish his coffee. Last week a dead body, and now this. He had to go check with Laurence, whom he had carefully avoided since that little fun in the alley and police station. One week. Not answering her calls and playing dead when she knocked on his door.  He had answered once or twice to his parents, swearing he was okay, and then stayed silent for them, too. Even Farid; he didn’t really feel like talking about it. He just wanted things back to normal. But then last night there had been a ghost in his living room and he’d shared a smoke with it. He had to tell Laurence. She was the one who knew how to deal with that. Presumably. 

His sister must be at the bookshop, on a Saturday morning. Maybe that girl she sent would be there too? Diane, was it? She’d been quite nice for someone who had been dragged, against her will, surely, into something that was totally weird for her – police, siblings’ love-hate relationship. Angry blind guy.  He winced. He had not been nice. He had to apologize, somehow.

“Fuck.”  
A piece of the croissant Desden had been dipping in his coffee had detached from the rest and fallen into his bowl, splashing his face with the hot beverage. It was not hot enough to burn, but if there was some on his face, there must be some on the shirt he had just put on. Which was white. Indeed, there was a damp spot on the collar. Grumbling, he ate the remaining part of the pastry, quickly drank the coffee, licked his fingers, and went to the bathroom to ditch his stained shirt and clean his face. He made a mental note to start buying only black shirts. Or take his breakfast in pyjamas. Or not to wear that fancy clothes on weekends. He was unfastening the first buttons when the doorbell rang.   
He stopped, but then started again. He seriously had no need to answer; must be Mrs Sanchez from downstairs coming to complain about the night before.   
The doorbell rang again, longer this time.   
“I’m not here, I’m not here,” he muttered under his breath.   
As the doorbell rang for a third time, Kalinka started barking.   
“Oh, fucking dog! Shit. Alright.” And louder: “COMING!”  
He quickly fastened the buttons back again, washed his face, and walked to the door. He had not reached it yet when the visitors called up.

“Mr Dessaigne, it’s the police. Please open your door now, we have a few new questions to ask you.”

Shit. He didn’t want to talk to his neighbours, but the police was another matter altogether. It hadn’t exactly come out well the last time they had interrogated him. Had he recognized the voice? He really didn’t want to be forced to talk to that inspector again. And did he have to let them in? That was not something he liked, letting strangers in. He was almost opening the door when he realized he didn’t have his glasses on. If he didn’t like strangers to get inside his home, he especially hated strangers seeing him without his glasses. There was nothing to hide, it was mostly a matter of appearances. He felt a lot more confident with his glasses on. They’d have to wait for him to go fetch them.

Once he got them on, he opened the door, Kalinka at his feet, now silent.   
“Hi. Seems you didn’t really want to see us, did you, Mr Dessaigne?  
He didn’t answer anything, but it was burning his lips.   
“I’m inspector Blanchard, from last time. You remember me?”   
His growling voice had an annoying ring to it, something almost beyond hearing, that made Desden’s jaw ache, for some reason. He also carried the same stale cigarette smell. Unmistakable. After a short, awkward silence, he stepped back, and opened the door wider. “Sorry, yes I do. Hello. Please, uh, please come in.”  
They were two. The second one was taller, or so it seemed from him walking in. Desden could make nothing else from him, except a quick whiff of what he immediately linked to a dog, hidden under an aggressive deodorant. Or something like a dog. It was not exactly a dog. Anyway, that dude probably had a dog, and didn’t wash his clothes that often, then.

He closed the door behind them and followed inside, Kalinka, trotting ahead of him. The very short corridor led directly to his little living room, so there was no need for him to tell them where to go.   
“Last time, you told me you were living alone?” The inspector had apparently seated down already, and was not really asking a question, more trying to underline a mistake. Desden frowned, feeling stupid standing in the middle of his own flat in front of this weird little man. Or troll. Desden suddenly decided to imagine him as a troll, even if he very rarely tried to put an image on the people he met. Too tiring, useless, and with his bad and worsening visual memory it actually didn’t work half of the time, anyway. But this man deserved to be a troll.   
“Yes, I do. I used to share my flat, but no one else has lived here for at least five or six years.   
“Why do you have a TV, then?”  
Desden couldn’t help but sigh. He opened his mouth, not really knowing what he was going to say, when the other cop spoke.   
“Come on, Robert, there are many programs you can follow without the image.” His deep, mellifluous voice had a sudden calming effect. Desden wondered if they were playing good cop and bad cop, but there was no reason for it, and Blanchard was clearly an arsehole without having to take on a role. That he already knew.

“I am sorry I didn’t introduce myself earlier, by the way, but I guessed you’d remember my partner.” Something in the way he said that… “I’m inspector Rousseau.  
“That’s funny because he’s ginger.”  
Rousseau and Desden both chose to ignore that last sentence from Blanchard, and Desden held up his hand. “Camille Dessaigne.   
“I’m a little more to your right.  
“Eh, sorry, thanks.” Desden corrected his position, and the man eventually shook his hand. Weird dude. His hand was soft, as soft as his voice, his skin warm and his hold strong.   
“Please, have a sit. What – er – what do you want from me again?” Desden sat in the sofa, understanding the cops had taken the two old, crumbling armchairs facing it.

“We have made little progress in identifying the man you found,” Rousseau started. Even his speech was weird. Kind of pompous. There was an… old-timey feel about his choice of words. “But we found your direct neighbour might have links with organized crime.”   
“Mrs Sanchez?!” Desden couldn’t help but chuckle.   
Mrs Sanchez was living in the flat directly under his, and was the one who always complained about the dog. Mrs Sanchez rarely got out and complained about everything and anything. He didn’t like her very much and it was mutual.

“No, the neighbour across this floor. A Mr Brunon. Kevin.   
“I’ve never spoken to him. Only crossed him in the stairs or such. He moved out a few months ago, I think.   
“You can’t tell us anything about that man?” Blanchard was at it again. It was kind of touching, how convinced he was Desden would be able to make a statement.  Well, would have been if it wasn’t so annoying.   
“Well, no, nothing.” What was the point to this? “I think you should ask other people in the building. At least they can describe him better.   
“We just did.” Soft voice again. “In fact, we are just out of Mrs Sanchez’s flat. She complained that someone was shouting in your flat and your dog was barking all night.”  
Of course. Good old Mrs Sanchez. Desden let out a noise that was half between a sigh and a chuckle. Think quick.   
“Not _all_ night. But she did, yeah. I don’t know what happened, but, you know, dogs.” He randomly gestured.    
“Mrs Sanchez says a man was screaming, and it wasn’t you.” How did two men so different manage to pick up the trail of questions from the other so seamlessly? Blanchard was maybe less dumb than he sounded.    
“A man? It was me. I was yelling so the dog would shut up.   
“Mrs Sanchez was categoric. She said the man had a very high-pitched voice. That does not sound like you.   
“I, uh…” Think quick, think quick. He licked his lips. Well, time to play that card again. “Okay, I just… I walked into the coffee table, okay? You can’t really sound all deep when you feel like you’ve just broken a toe. The dog was barking, I was half asleep, came up to calm it down... and the table was in the way. Happens to everyone. This is not exactly that hard to admit, but… you see…”   
“It’s okay, Mr Dessaigne.” Blanchard quickly interrupted. “We just wanted to check.”  
There was silence. Desden waited, and didn’t have to look falsely shameful – he hated doing this. But it was usually useful. Never underestimate the power of awkwardness.    
Then both cop stood up, sounding perfectly in sync.   
“Well, we’ll be off and stop annoying you. We might come around if we have more questions, but it’s unlikely.”  
Desden stood up. He didn’t really know what to say. “I hope you can identify that man. I think it’s sad to be buried without a name on your headstone to be remembered.   
“Oh we can’t bury him yet, sadly.” The soft voice said this in a light tone, then paused. “Be well, Mr Dessaigne.” Desden offered his hand again, first to Rousseau, then had to suffer Blanchard’s clammy grip and his hand on his shoulder.     
  
He saw the cops back to the door, closed it, and let out a long sigh, puffing his cheeks. Then a few others. Kalinka walked up to him. He patted her head.   
“Now, dog, we really need to go to the bookshop.” 

°°°

The shop’s doorbell rang more briefly than usual, followed by a muffled “Aw, shit.”   
Laurence glanced up to see her brother trying to open the door; his dog was in the way. She hurried to help him, but he managed by himself before she could reach him. When he was finally in, he took down the few steps that leaded to the main room of the shop, but tipped off one of the piles of old books she had been planning to get rid of with his elbow, scattering the whole pile on the floor. She ran to him and dragged him away to a cleaner place, patting his arm, not caring about him cursing her again.   
“Don’t – Okay.” He took a deep breath, apparently trying to calm down. “How the fuck are you supposed to get by in this damn shop? Look, I am sorry about that. I hope I didn’t break anything?”   
The dog was in between them, too big and drooling, as usual.   
“Are you okay?” She regretted saying this as soon as she saw his face.   
“Am I made of glass? Nothing happened to me, here, except you dragging me randomly without warning. I asked you if _your books_ were okay. Shall we start a normal way for once? Hi, Laurence, nice day, is it? What’s up?   
“ _Camille_.” If they began this way, it would be very hard to reason him. She used his name instead of his nickname to try to convey more gravity. That cute childhood nickname didn’t suit him much anymore, anyway.   
“I am not only talking about today. What - and you’re injured, too!” She grabbed his left hand, looking at the bandage – almost making him drop the paper bag he was holding. He quickly pulled his arm out, hiding his hand and the bag behind his back. The dog’s eyes followed the bag with hunger. “You didn’t tell us! What the hell crossed your mind? We were worried sick!  
“You were so worried, you sent someone else to pick me up.” He kept tilting his head on the right. And she noticed he had a coffee stain on his collar. Again.   
“It’s nothing, just a few stitches. Listen, I need to talk to you about –” Now he was stepping backwards. She grabbed his arm and yanked him towards her again.  
“Remember where you are, for God’s sake! You’re going to fall and break everything. There’s another pile of books waiting to be stored right behind you.   
“Sorry.” There was red coming up to his cheeks. And that dog. It was sniffing the books, as her brother had let go of its leash. It was going to make everything fall all by itself. Was it ever helping?   
“How did you do that to your hand?  
“I fell when I understood what it was and tried to get away.” He was finally calming down and answering. Good.  “And nothing crossed my mind, I just wanted to go home and this… this… body was in the way. That’s it. That’s all. Why, do you think I did this on purpose? To annoy you?”   
She sighed. Maybe he wasn’t calming down. She had to say it, but as usual, he wouldn’t listen. She put a hand on his arm.   
“I am worried about you, Camille. We are all worried, it’s… you don’t know how it feels to get a call from the cops.  A call about you.  
“I am really not willing to have this conversation again right now, Laurence. Really. I came for serious reasons. Look, there’s something happening, and -   
“Indeed. You did something stupid and put yourself in danger again.   
“I DID NOT –  I did. Not. Listen, all I did was walk home. Now, yesterday the fucking dead dude I randomly walked on was in my fucking flat!!!! DO YOU GET THAT OR DO YOU WANT A DRAWING?  
“Don’t yell at me!   
“I WILL YELL UNTIL YOU TELL ME YOU HAVE UNDERSTOOD WHAT I JUST SAID, DAMMIT!” He had stepped towards her, towering. As blind as he was, he was an imposing man. He always used his height in their children arguments. He never fought, but damn did he use his size to frighten her. She stepped back to regain some ground, while he continued. She used to fight by pulling his hair. She would not use that now, even if she felt like it.   
“There was a ghost in my living room, and I have no idea how to deal with that !!!"   
“What the hell do you want _me_ to do?   
“Holy shit! But help me, for fuck’s sake!!!   
“You want _me_ to help _you_? Are you kidding? You never want my help.   
“Because _that_ is not help.” Now he had stopped yelling. He was talking through gritted teeth. “I need real help now. You know how to deal with that. _He_ –

 “I am interrupting something, right?”   
Diane had pushed the door without a look at what was happening inside, and when she entered, she felt like the temperature had dropped ten degrees. You could have said Laurence and her brother were staring stonily at each other – only if you didn’t know one of them was blind. She once again marvelled at their resemblance: two faces of the same coin. Laurence was the first to move:   
“Actually, my brother was leaving.”  
“What? NO!” Laurence’s brother looked a lot better than the first time Diane had seen him: his clothes were clean and not rumpled like then, his hair was a little less messy – or as messy as it could get being so short – and he had colours on his cheeks. Well, he still looked angry. She was beginning to think it was his default expression. Laurence turned to her, ignoring her brother.   
“Ah, Diane, it’s all right, come on in. Although you should probably help my brother back to the door, considering the mess in the shop. He won’t let me.” And just like that, Laurence disappeared at the back of the shop. What the hell had just happened?   
“I am here, you know! There _will_ be a follow up to this conversation, Laurence! Uh. Hi, Diane, by the way.   
“…Er, hi, Camille.” She looked around. He was in the middle of a clean area, sure, but the way to the door was stacked with piles of books, and fallen ones, too. She didn’t really know if the dog would help for all that. What had Laurence been doing?

“Err, there are books everywhere, and uh… lemme pick them up, will you?”   
He sighed and licked his lips, making a little disapproving sound with his tongue. He seemed to be fighting himself to say something. Or to follow Laurence in the back.   
Diane, picking up books, got closer to him and lowered her voice.   
“I’m not working this morning, had some appointments. I was just bringing back a bunch of papers for her to sign. I have no idea what she’s been doing. It’s a mess. It wasn’t like that yesterday. I’ll just pick up the ones that are scattered in the way and I’m all yours.”  
He let out something that sounded like a repressed chuckle. Diane glanced up from the books she was gathering to see if Laurence was coming back, but the door to the back of the shop was closed. This was really weird. She put the papers she had come with prominently on the pile she had just completed.  
“Okay, err, if I have to help you up, how does it work?   
“I don’t think I really need it, but… let’s please my sister and avoid bumping into another pile, I guess. Gimme your arm.” He called his dog back and held out his hand. She put her hand in his, and he took her arm above her elbow, with a grip a lot lighter than she’d have thought. He made a weird face for a second or two, tilting his head, then it disappeared and he smiled.  
“Wow. Big guns!  
“Yeah, I… uh, I like sports.   
“That’s pretty cool. That’s it, just go. I’ll be behind you. Go straight through the door, will you, or we’ll probably have problems on the steps.”  
She walked very slowly, not knowing how it’d work, but forgot to tell him about the doorsteps. Luckily, the dog didn’t. The three of them ended up on the street, which was more or less empty, under a scorching sun.

“Well, thanks, I guess... We do seem to meet in pretty awkward occasions, don’t we?” He had an embarrassed laugh, and fished for something in his backpack. “I’m sorry about that. As it happens, I… I thought you were working today, and I had brought something for you, to thank you for last time? It’s just… I remember being… not very nice.”   
She was not expecting that. He handed a paper bag to her. His cheeks were red again, but this time he didn’t look angry. More sheepish, actually. She took the paper bag.  
“It’s nothing, eh, just pastries, but I had no idea so I thought, well, food is always good. Hope you like chocolate, I took the safe choice. Would have baked them myself but with all these things happening, I forgot.”  
She just stood there holding the bag until she realized he couldn’t see the smile on her face and she probably should speak up.   
“That’s really nice. Thank you. It’s the first time someone gives me something to thank me, actually. Pastries, at least.  
“Really? What, do you live in a cave?” Coming from someone she barely knew, like him, it could have been a little offensive. But he was smiling, a lopsided, but somehow still kind of sheepish smile.   
“It’s probably because I don’t help people much. Or, I don’t know, they just don’t.   
“Trust me, you deserve your chocolate.”  
An awkward silence lingered, then he talked again.    
“I probably shouldn’t have come at all. But at least I got to give you that. Can I ask? Is it nice to work with her? How is she? As a boss? I have no idea how she is with other people.   
“She's... actually good. You know, we probably shouldn’t be talking right in front of the door. Just in case.   
“Good point. Want to eat your brownies with a drink? It’s too hot. I need one."  
  
She didn't know him, but on the other hand she didn't know anyone past Laurence in this city. She had time to waste. She was still unsure about what to do with him or what to talk about with him, but... If she followed this thinking, she never knew what to do with people. And he was being nice, just genuinely nice. Maybe she was dumb but it didn't feel like he was trying anything else. Why not.    
“Well, I took the day off and my next appointment is this afternoon, so... Sure!”

 

 


End file.
